Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
BETH
B uh-bum. Buh-bum. Buh-bum.
The sound of my breathing overlapping my heartbeat echoes in my ear as I run straight for Nigel’s room, knowing exactly what comes next if I stay here any longer.
I knew the second I realized what happened with Martin that Nigel would either hurt me or kill me if he ever found out. Ollie swore he would keep that secret for me, but it was a lie.
Every last bit of the past week and a half was a fucking lie.
He said I was fucking easy.
Oliver Doyle is a vindictive bastard and a major asshole. He just proved that with what he did. I could’ve handled it if he told me that he didn’t feel the same way as I did for him. I could accept that. What I can’t handle is his heartless and careless back-stabbing maneuver.
I fucking trusted him.
I’ll never make that mistake again.
I run straight for the bed and reach under the pillow where Nigel has kept his gun since my first night here. I grab it and shove it inside the back of my jeans just in case I need it before I grab my duffle bag. Racing to the bathroom, I grab all the things that belong to me and drop them in the bag. This is reminiscent of the last time I tried to run away from Nigel, but Judy isn’t here and I’m smarter than I was the last time I ran for it.
Perspiration gathers on the back of my neck as I hurry back into the bedroom, but I stop dead in my tracks when I see Nigel sitting on the bed, his fingers intertwined on his lap.
“Hey,” he mutters, his voice level, but I don’t trust it. I know better than to believe he’s going to ignore what just happened.
“Hi.” The word cracks on my tongue as my fingers shake. It’s okay. If he makes a move, I have the gun.
He can’t hurt me.
“Listen,” he mutters, rolling his lips before the muscles in his hands tense. “I know I just got back and we haven’t talked since I left, but…I think you should leave. I need to process what I just heard and I really don’t want to hurt you. Just go.”
I grip the strap of my bag tight as I stand in the doorway, waiting to see if he’ll do anything, but he just stares back at me, waiting on my response.
“I was already planning to do that,” I admit before I head for the bedside table where my clothes occupy the drawers.
“Why?” he asks as I shove the clothes in my duffle bag
My fingers freeze. Why? Is he really that clueless?
I zip up the bag as I feel a hand on my shoulder. In a flash, I have the gun out and snap around, pointing it directly at Nigel. His hands immediately go up as he slowly backs away.
“Calm down, butterfly. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I laugh at the sentiment. Not going to hurt me? Too fucking late. He has hurt me. He has held me captive and controlled every aspect of my life for too fucking long. “Your words don’t mean shit anymore, O’Reilly. I believe what I see and what I remember. I remember what happened that night and it fucking haunts me. I don’t fucking trust you not to hurt me because you’ve proven that you’re capable of it.”
A look crosses over his face, one that’s genuinely shameful, but I can’t believe it. “Baby, I promised you I wouldn’t do that again. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”
“Sure,” I mutter sarcastically. “We both know what happened the last time you thought something happened between me and Martin.”
He takes a step toward me and I aim the gun to shoot the wall behind him before I pull the trigger. The loud bang that comes from the gun makes my ears ring and he jumps back.
Honestly, I don’t know if I would be able to shoot him if it came down to it. He holds a special place in my heart, much like my mother does, which is so beyond fucked.
This man has done nothing but push, push, and push for more. There’s literally no reason for me to feel any type of way about him.
“Take a breath, Beth,” he mutters, his eyes full of understanding, as his door is slammed open.
“What the fuck was that?!” someone yells, but I make sure not to take my eyes off of Nigel.
“What are you doing?” That was someone else.
“Just get out. I’ve got this, okay?” Nigel snaps his head around, yelling at whoever barged in, before looking back at me.
“I’m going to walk out that door and you’re not going to follow me. I don’t want you to come find me. I just want to be left alone and, if you don’t do that, Nigel, I’ll tell them what you did to me. I don’t want to, but I will if you don’t let me go .”
I probably sound like I’ve lost my mind. He said he wanted me to leave, but I can’t trust that he’ll let me. His friends being present is probably my only saving grace.
“Nigel, what did you do?” That was definitely Ronan.
Nigel looks contemplative, like he’s trying to decide whether to let me go or let me tell them how he hurt me. I mean, they are his friends. Maybe he is immune to the powers of the warehouse. Then, he mutters, “Just put the gun down and you can go. No one will stop you, okay? Just take a deep breath. You’re shaking.”
My gaze drops to my hand and he’s right. My hand is jerking back and forth from the panic going through my brain. That’s the external sign that I wouldn’t be able to shoot him, even to protect myself.
I slowly walk over to the door, pointing the gun at my now ex-boyfriend before I reach the threshold. I turn and see Ronan standing there, the color drained from his face. I push the gun into his hand before darting down the stairs, holding the strap of the bag to my shoulder. With a lift of my eyes, Oliver comes into my line of sight, standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” he asks, his voice shaken, but I shoulder past him to the door.
“What, do you suddenly care?” I pull open the front door and dart out before crossing through dozens of backyards to avoid being found in case Nigel changed his mind.
I won’t make the same mistake twice. I won’t be sticking to the main roads and definitely won’t let anyone distract me.
This is my great escape and I won’t be caught.
* * *
I thought about making phone calls, but I don’t know how far Nigel’s reach goes. I want to get as far as I can before he changes his mind. I got directions from about a dozen strangers I passed on my way to the other side of Grove Hill–to the Grove Hill Estates. Some had absolutely no idea where the Gray place was, some ran off the second I mentioned it, but a few were helpful in telling me the way.
The directions lead me to a rod iron gate with a man sitting in a small box with a window. I walk up and he cracks the window.
“How can I help you?” he asks while reading a book in his hands.
Rude.
“I’m here to see Martin Gray.” It’s such a surprising decision that Nigel would never have guessed it. Neither would Oliver.
“Identification?” he adds.
I reach into my bag before pulling out my I.D. and slip it through the opening in the window. He takes it, puts down his book, and looks it over before handing it back to me through the gap.
A minute later, the gate opens and I look at the long driveway and realize I can’t see the damn house.
Goddamn rich people.
I take the trek up the long, windy private road with perfectly manicured trees, elegant lamp posts, and trimmed bushes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m heading to The White House.
This is why I hate rich people. They could do so much good in the world with the gifts they have been granted, but no, they drive expensive cars, pay to have their driveway landscaped, and pay millions of dollars for big mansions with rooms I doubt they have ever been in.
Not to mention, they’re entitled.
Generally speaking, of course.
I walk slowly down the driveway because even I can admit, the scenery is nice. I doubt the man at the gate would let Nigel O’Reilly in here. It’s possible but unlikely.
I covered my tracks well.
I walk up the ten steps from the driveway to the front door. Knocking my knuckles against the white door, I count my breaths as I wait, trying to slow my racing heart. I’ve made it to one-fifty by the time the door opens, and a potbelly-owning, elderly man stands there in a suit.
“Can I help you, miss?”
I nod. “Yes, I’m looking for Martin Gray.”
He rolls his eyes and huffs before pulling open the door. “Come in and I’ll retrieve him.”
I wonder if his boss would appreciate his attitude. He’s acting like I’ve inconvenienced him.
I hold my head high before stepping through the threshold and it’s as if I walked into the twilight zone. I mean, I expected the inside to be lavish and a show of the type of money this family is rolling in, but it wasn’t this.
I walk further into the glorified mansion. The tile floor seems literally made of gold, and the paintings hanging on the walls must cost more than the house my mother purchased in this town. A crystal chandelier hangs in the entryway as light elevator music plays in the distance. My pulse thrums in my neck as the man who let me in side-steps me.
“I’ll let Mr. Gray know you’re here. What name shall I give him?” he asks as he bends his arm behind his back.
My eyes narrow as I mutter, “Beth Mercer. He knows who I am.”
He nods and walks down the hall to my left as I look at the very nice painting of a lush forest at the edge of a mountain with snow caps at the top. It’s really pretty and tranquil. It doesn't have the vibe of chandeliers and gold. It’s something my dad would’ve attempted to paint on one of his days off work, but his talent was never like this.
I look down at the name at the corner of the painting, wondering if it’s a name I might recognize.
My dad thought of himself as an art collector when I was little. Our house was full of so many pieces, but I don’t recognize the name at the bottom of the painting.
Maizie Gray
Maizie. It’s such a pretty name. It has to be a family member. Why else would they show off the painting?
“Can I help you?” A deep voice calls and I snap my head around to see a man standing there, leaning against the wall. With dirty blonde hair perfectly managed and manicured and sapphire blue eyes, he looks like an older version of Martin wearing an expensive navy blue suit complete with a tie and loafers on his feet.
This must be Martin’s dad. He looks made of money and like that defines every aspect of his life, but that doesn’t account for the look in his eyes.
Cold.
Calculated.
Empty.
I’m not the best judge of character in the world, but I’d say I’m pretty decent when it comes to most people. I don’t trust this man just by looking at him.
“Sorry. I’m just waiting on Martin,” I say as I take a step away from the painting.
He nods before those eyes of his move up and down my body before shifting to the painting. “You’re Darcy Mercer’s daughter, right?”
How does he know my mom? Wait, Michael said she’d been over for dinner or something like that. Right.
“Yes. She’s my mom,” I admit, feeling like snakes are slithering up my arms even though he’s not looking at me. “It’s a really pretty painting,” I say to fill the silence.
“That it is. She was a talented artist.”
“A lot of attention to detail,” I mutter, trying not to let it show that his presence makes me feel like throwing up. I don’t know what it is about him that affects me like this.
“Mm-hmm.” I look down the hall that the butler went down, praying Martin gets here soon so I can escape this man. I don’t like being around him. “You know…” he starts before taking a long pause. Then, those blue eyes settle on me again. “Your mother and I have been working out a betrothment.”
“Betrothment?” I know what it means–a contract engagement.
“Between you and Martin.”
I feel my heart rate pick up. I can’t say how I would feel about that, being married to Martin of all people. I’ve always craved freedom and that would strip that away, but considering it would require me to interact regularly with this man, I’d rather eat rat poison. So, that would be a “maybe in hell” type of reaction. Plus, these people represent everything I hate about people. It would be like dying a slow and painful death.
“He needs some stability in his life and some way to ground himself.”
Please, stop talking to me.
“Everyone does,” I respond.
“Beth,” I hear Martin’s voice and snap around, seeing him walking down the hall toward me. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his gaze shifting between me and his father. He seems…uneasy. He’s not the carefree, teasing man I’ve seen him be right now. He looks so serious and worried.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” I ask as I walk over to him. His hand immediately goes to the small of my back, but I feel the way his thumb shakes.
“Yeah, come on. We can talk in here,” he mutters as he pushes open the first door we come to in the hall. We go inside and I catch one final look from his father who is staring at me with a weird look in his eyes.
I really don’t like that man.
“What are you doing here?” Martin asks, looking freaked out, as he closes the door and locks it. He turns to me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?” I’m not sure if he means my mood or if I’m injured.
I have the sneaking suspicion that he is only reacting like this because he found me talking to his father.
Is his father the reason all those girls were covered in bruises and hospitalized?
“Physically, yeah. Are you okay? You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.” He looks pale, like he’s about to be sick.
He slowly shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have come here, okay? This place isn’t safe.” He cups my cheek in his hand, pushing his point home.
Not this place, but the people here aren’t safe. I get the underlying meaning in his words. He just confirmed my suspicions without outright saying it.
He’s worried that his father will hurt me, too.
For some reason, Martin cares about my safety and I’ve never been anything but an absolute shit to him. The guilt gnaws at me so intensely that I don’t remove his hand from my face. I let him touch me with so much care, something deep inside me is moved.
“I’m okay…” I press my hand against his, the heat from his palm soaking into my cheek. “He said he and my mom have been working out a betrothal between me and you. Did you know about that?” I ask, needing to make sure that I’m not the only one left out of the loop.
His eyes widen though. He was just as much in the dark as I’ve been.
“What?”
I nod. “That’s what he said. I knew my mom was trying to marry me off to the highest bidder, but I didn’t know she had gotten that far into anything. She’s been to the Jordan’s, too, and I don’t know who else.”
His lips thin in concentration before he whispers, “Don’t worry. I’ll put a stop to it. You won’t be forced to marry someone you don’t want to. I promise.”
I’m not worried. My mom can’t force me to marry anyone. I’m a legal adult. She has no leverage.
If I’m looking at the real Martin Gray, I can’t say I would be too much against marrying him. He’s being sweet and understanding. Plus, I doubt his family would expect us to be around too much after marriage.
Why the hell am I thinking of marrying Martin?
Like he said, he’ll deal with it. If he doesn’t, we’ll deal with that when we have to.
Besides, my mom said she was going to stop before she went to rehab.
That’s what I get for believing that bullshit.